


Already Mine

by alby_mangroves



Series: Yuletide Stories [3]
Category: Billy Elliot (2000)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining, Yuletide 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-02 10:58:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2809826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alby_mangroves/pseuds/alby_mangroves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael’s an awkward bag of elbows in Billy’s shockingly firm embrace, scrunching his eyes against the burn of the afternoon sun. His hands fist in Billy’s t-shirt and maybe it doesn’t shine out of his arse but Billy smells of sunlight. Always has.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Already Mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Philipa_Moss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philipa_Moss/gifts).



> Thank you to A, A, MJ & E for the Beta help, Britpicking and encouragement ♥ ♥ ♥

 

~ ⤄ ~ 

_June 1994, London_

It’s weird how it happens, a total fluke - in all the years Billy had studied at the Royal Ballet School, Michael had never had the opportunity to come visit on purpose. Still, when he finds himself back in London on the invite of a friend-of-a-friend he’d met backpacking through the south of France, he can’t not.

There’s a phone box near the café where he's been people-watching for a while before deciding what to do and Michael’s heart races when he digs out the dogeared little notebook he’s carried around forever, Billy’s number penned in and crossed out several times as he’s moved.

Waiting for Billy to pick up, he flips through the notebook. He wonders why he hasn’t tossed it yet, pages of half-cocked attempts at song lyrics and notes-to-self so old he doesn’t even recall their significance, and Billy’s number, scribbled again and again in black or red or blue.

(He’ll never throw it away.)

They arrange to meet at Kensington Gardens by something Billy calls the Physical Energy Statue. The sound of his voice makes Michael’s face hurt from smiling even as he writes it down, pay phone earpiece jammed between shoulder and cheek, notebook spread open between the prongs of his fingers.

~ ⤄ ~

Michael’s expecting all sorts of interesting things with a name like that, but it’s just a bronze of a man on a horse, big nostrils in their startled faces and a ripple of texture on the surface like they’re caught between frames of a flipbook. It’s kind of ugly.

Michael stands in its shadow for a good half hour, long enough to start to wonder if he'd gotten the time wrong. It's not like Billy to be so late. At least it never used to be, not even to put on those horrid boxing gloves he’d hated. Could always be counted to be on time, Billy.

Maybe he won’t come. Maybe Michael could traipse back up to the record store he passed on the way here, with sun-curled The Prodigy and Celine Dion posters sharing windowspace in an inspired act of travesty, a yellowing NO SMOKING sign on the door.

He could spend the afternoon making that today’s activity. It feels like something he could do if Billy doesn’t —

Michael shoves his hands in his pockets, shoulders his rucksack and pushes his disappointment down out of sight, upset with himself for feeling it at all.

He wanders up the tree-lined alley, heart jangling against his ribs and his hands sweating and no idea _why_ he should be this anxious about it — it’s only Billy, who’s already seen the best and worst of Michael Caffrey, though not recently. Not for years. Still, his body’s not listening to logic. He worries the lint in his pockets and goes for a walk instead, unable to stomach the awkwardness of being the one still pillar among strolling lovers and people walking with purpose, clearly on their way to somewhere else.

Michael veers off the path and finds a thick tree trunk to lean against. When he tips his face up, sunlight filters through the canopy above to reach his face in a stripe over the bridge of his nose. It soaks in, warm and calming.

He’s half dozing when the sun is suddenly gone. It takes him a moment to realise someone’s blocked out the light, a sudden wall erected between Michael’s body coiled in the grass and the warmth coming from above. Michael’s heart, momentarily calmed, rushes up into his throat. When he opens his eyes, Billy is an opaque silhouette against the glare of afternoon sun and Michael waits for his eyes to adjust and for Billy’s features to be cast in a familiar way, a Billy way.

“Sorry I’m late, had a rehearsal and it ran over. Came as soon as I could.”

“You’d make a better door than you do a window,” Michael says, relief making his fingertips tingle, slipping straight into easy words, not like he’d been wondering what they’re going to say to each other at all after all these years of sporadic contact. “‘S not gonna shine out your arse either so get out of my light.”

“You’d know,” Billy says and his voice is samedifferent, the laughter in it as familiar as Michael’s own hands but the age in it turning it into something other, smoother and harder all at once.

He’s tall, so much taller than Michael remembered and he’s suddenly very conscious of his scuffed Docs and skinny legs. He should’ve thought to freshen up the eyeliner because he can feel it going soft and weepy under his eyes, worked into the creases the way it goes, worst when he’s tired or stressed.

His leg’s fallen asleep so he gets up wonky and shaking like a gangly colt but he’s given no chance to feel stupid about it when Billy straightaway enfolds him in a hard hug. Michael’s an awkward bag of elbows in Billy’s shockingly firm embrace, scrunching his eyes against the burn of the afternoon sun. His hands fist in Billy’s t-shirt and maybe it doesn’t shine out of his arse but Billy smells of sunlight. Always has.

(Michael suspects he always will.)

He can only squeeze Billy harder and press the moment between them like a flower left to live forever in a treasured book.

 ~ ⤄ ~

They get dinner to eat in the park and sit side by side with their chips, talking about the Seattle sound and Tony’s bald patch and Michael can’t stop laughing at that, can’t breathe for how his chest heaves with the notion of Billy’s toughnut older brother getting old and paunchy.

“Just as well he’s on the straight and narrow these days, no more running from the heat with all those extra pounds,” Michael says, still smiling, but the thought makes him reflect on everyone back home ageing right along with the rest of the world, no time capsule of his and Billy’s childhoods. Everything would feel smaller now if he went back, dirtier, at once more and less real to him. He hasn’t been home for a while.

Billy smiles around a chip, fond and warm, then holds greasy fingers out of the way while using the heel of his hand to push his hair out of his eyes, though it immediately slides back. Billy doesn't seem to notice.

“Are you even allowed to eat these?” Michael says, and under the pretext of scrutinising Billy’s fitness level, he snatches whatever glimpses he can of the hard body Billy’s dancing has earned him.

“It’s not a prison, Michael Caffrey, they don’t police what I eat,” Billy says, one eyebrow climbing.

His hair’s darker than when they were little. Perhaps Michael should be surprised at the painful clench in his heart, but he isn’t, not really. Not so much has changed after all. His laughter fades but the ache between his ribs remains.

“Not worried about getting fat like Tony, then?”

Billy just smiles. “I work too hard to worry about that, mate.”

Michael’s been shooting him a furtive side-eye here and there but now he allows himself a moment where Billy’s focused elsewhere to really look. He follows Billy’s freckles up his bare forearm to the muscle of his bicep where it disappears under the sleeve of his t-shirt, the hint of raw strength and vitality enough to make him close his eyes and turn away, heartbeat thudding in his veins. Shit.  _Shit._

“Have you been back home?”

Michael shakes his head. “Been traveling around for the past few months. Wanted to see a bit of what’s out there.”

Billy nods, splitting blades of grass between his fingers. It’s as good a thing as any to focus on.

“You should ring your dad. He worries about you,” Billy says, and how’s it possible that Billy’s the one who’s out in the world making it big, making it count for all of the small-town folks back home and yet he knows more about what’s going on in Everington than Michael does?

The unsettling feeling remains all afternoon until they make their way to Billy’s local, where he manages to mute it with a few well-timed beers. And if Billy gives him a couple of sidelong looks too, Michael puts it down to the smudged eyeliner and worn Public Image Limited t-shirt that’s never felt as threadbare as it does right now with Billy smiling and beautiful beside him. He wishes he'd made more effort.

They’re half cut when they finally leave the bar. Not having anywhere special to go, they find themselves back in the park running around like kids. Michael's eyes are hungry for Billy's effortless grace, but Billy's not watching so it's okay. Michael's being careful. It's funny how even when Billy's fucking around he's still unable to hide his skill amongst the silliness, even when he's leaping about from tree to tree like an idiot goat, screaming, “I'm not real bright but I can lift a lot,” in a horrible falsetto imitation of his big brother who’s unsuspectingly getting fatter, balder and more neanderthal as the night wears on.

~ ⤄ ~

The grass they're lying on is wet. Moisture soaks through Michael’s shirt and licks at his shoulder blades. Beside him, Billy squirms, starting to feel it too.

"Shite," Michael mutters, makes to sit up and move but only succeeds in hiccuping and flopping back down again, burbling helpless laughter. It's all too hard, apparently. He’ll just stay right down here where his head doesn’t spin. Much.

Troubles seem far away tonight though it’s taken a while for all their teeth to become nicely dulled by the beer sloshing around in Michael's belly and warming his blood. He’s reluctant to call it a night. It’s too good, just Billy and he, like they used to be. Except with the buzz of alcohol - starting to fade now but still pleasant - and no curfew, which only makes it better even if there’s an undertow to it, a sense of danger nipping at his low defenses.

(Michael wonders if he’s the only one to feel it.)

The grass is wet and Billy's here and they're a million miles away from County Durham and they're maggoted. Well. Not a million, maybe. Just 200 miles. Just London, but definitely maggots.

"Drunk maggots in London," he says, laughing too hard to breathe properly, knowing he's not making any sense but it's okay, it's fine because Billy's giggling too, like that time they’d been mucking around near the stream and he'd slipped into the burn and when he came up out of the swell his pants were floating down around his skinny knees and they both laughed so hard they’d almost puked.

When he calms down, he's a little lightheaded and Billy's looking at him with an unreadable expression on his face. It's a strange one, that face. Sometimes his Billy's right there in the cant of laughing eyes and sometimes this other man's in there, this new, tall and disciplined man, with a headful of memories Michael's not even a part of.

“Hello, new man,” he says, then laughs at Billy’s confused scowl.

"I'm not, though." Billy's eyes are wary. He's not sure where Michael's headed with this. That makes two of them.

"'S what you are, though, you're shiny and new."

"Don’t be fucking daft, I'm the same Billy I always was," Billy says, and somehow looks even more perplexed and Michael thinks that he really must have had too much to drink because it shouldn't be this devastatingly sad to be on a different wavelength from someone; it should just be something one takes in one's stride, the way one always has.

The years feel like a gap in space/time. It might as well be centuries for how little he sees of his friend in this new Billy's face. Michael wonders if Billy sees the same changes in him, or if he's just good old Michael from around the corner, nothing more and nothing less. Nothing much at all.

“Is that what I am, too? Same Michael I always was, bit awkward, rough ‘round the edges but handy with a stiletto if you need a queen for buck’s night and good for a laugh maybe, unless there’s a better offer?”

It’s cruel, and he doesn’t mean it, not really, but it’s still horrible to see Billy’s face fall like he’s been slapped, then go very carefully blank.

“That’s not how I see you at all, Michael Caffrey, and you fuckin’ well know it,” Billy says, leaning up on his elbow, expression tightly laced now, wary. His eyes are searching for something and Michael feels awful that he’s managed to hurt him over shit that’s old as the hills if far less impressive, but he can’t stop now, can’t back away.

“Well, how is it then, Billy? ” Michael says, and in the ringing silence that follows wishes he could take it back, that he could have made it sound less like needy, whiny fishing.

He’s so focused on looking anywhere but at Billy that the gentle touch to his jaw directing him to face Billy again comes out of nowhere. He’s too surprised to do anything but let his face be tipped up, Billy’s fingers gentle and warm under his chin.

Billy touches his face, thumb slow-passing under Michael’s bottom lip, and he doesn’t understand how, exactly, but the next moment they’re kissing, Billy’s mouth a warm press on his, lips closed and chaste, until he breathes, startled by the rush of heat low in his belly. Michael doesn’t mean to open his mouth but it happens anyway, and he doesn’t mean to slot their mouths together but there they go, soft and hot. Billy’s stubble rasps against Michael’s chin and his insides pretzel together in delicious agony.

Michael groans as Billy’s lips close over his in a very deliberate catch and release, Billy tilting his face to fit them together better. It’s a slide from there, straight into an indelicate, hungry take for take, Billy testing a press of his tongue alongside Michael’s until it turns into the kind of kissing that’s just like fucking, hot and deep, and desperately breathless.

Michael’s stomach does a slow flip at how Billy’s still holding his face, keeping him close and then there are teeth, Billy nibbling a little at his lip and that’s it, that’s _it_ , Michael can’t do it, he absolutely can’t, not for one more second.

“Stop,” he says, heart crowding into his throat, nerves alight and aching, his eyes screwed so tightly shut that he can see the aura of stars underneath his eyelids.

Billy stills beside him. His hot breath breaks over Michael’s neck and it’s too much, thick emotion rising up like bile to lodge in his throat.

“Why,” Billy whispers with a confused, hurt lilt and Michael has never felt more like crying, though there have been times enough where he really, really did — when his broken bones were being set and when he held a dog left for dead by the side of the road, and when Billy's kiss made his face glow hot even as he left them all behind.

“The fuck do you mean why, it’s not like you’re— I mean, fuck, Billy, why the fuck did you have to go and do that for and fuck everything up!” He pushes up off the grass, the wet patches on his shoulders sticking to his skin. It's cold now, all the warmth sucked out of the air and replaced by evening chill.

“Hey, hey now,” Billy’s cooing at him and it’s terrible how all he can hear is the sound of his own heart breaking as he pulls away.

“I don’t know what kind of game you’re playin’, but you can fucking quit it right now.”

“I’m not— For fuck’s sake, Michael, wasn’t it nice? I mean, I thought it was nice, I don’t—” Billy gives up, shakes his head. He sits up and slings his arms around his knees and they’re not touching anymore, not anywhere.

Michael takes a deep breath until he doesn’t feel like he’s on the verge of tears anymore, but it’s a near thing. His hands are shaking. He stuffs them into his pockets.

“I don’t understand. Sorry, I thought you liked it. I thought you wanted me to. Sorry.”

And there it is, finally, the anger Michael needs to get through this, bubbling up from the well that’s always under his skin these days, ready to break through and drown him.

“I did want you to, don’t you fucking get it? I did! I do. I’m. You can’t do that, Billy. Not to me,” Michael says, voice breaking, the strain of keeping it all bottled up for so many years finally catching him up, knocking his knees out from under him. He’s just glad he was already sitting. “Not to me,” he whispers and looks away from Billy, at people walking in the distance, the halo of streetlights, at cars passing, at anything, anything at all.

“I wouldn’t,” Billy says, sullen now, holding himself stiffly apart.

Michael swallows the lump in his throat, an ache in his chest growing just like the prickling heat behind his eyes. He’s bruised Billy and he doesn’t know how to get them back to where they were smiling and happy just a few minutes ago.

“Just. Don’t play games with me.”

“And what if I wasn’t?”

“Fuck off, Billy. It’s not funny.”

“Not trying for funny. Trying to tell you I want you.”

“But we’re — god, we’ve been friends all our bloody lives, and—”

“—So we can’t be more, then? Is that what you’re saying? We can’t start as friends and find more?”

Michael hides his face in his hands. “I can’t be your experiment, Billy. I won’t — I won’t get up from that. I won’t . . .” He hates the way his voice breaks over words that won’t come. _Hates_ it. “You can’t just say that. You can’t just — I mean, have you even. . . before? With a bloke?”

Billy looks him squarely in the eye then, unafraid and not at all embarrassed. “I’ve never done it with a bloke before. But believe me, I’ve wanted to do it with you, plenty of times.”

Michael’s head hurts. He thinks that if he moves, something might break inside him. When Billy puts his arm around him, he stops breathing.

“You do realise I’m a bloke.”

Billy tsks, mutters, “Well of course I fuckin’ do, you complete git,” and they both laugh, the nervous tension dissipating a little, just enough for Michael to unset his spine from the iron-stiff rod it had become. Billy’s hand is warm at his waist and Michael feels him tense as he sobers, clears his throat. A crease appears between Billy’s brows as he tries to verbalise his thoughts and Michael doesn’t remember it being there before. For some reason it makes his insides clench in a pang of wistful longing.

“So no, I never have before. But that has no bearing at all on not doing it now or in the future, does it?”

“Maybe not,” Michael says, not fighting it anymore, not really, more like struggling to believe they’re having this conversation at all, and that he’d be the one, of all people, to tell someone else that their attraction can’t be real.

“I didn’t kiss you because you’re an experiment, I kissed you because I wanted to. Because you’re gorgeous, and I’ve missed you, and I wanted to know what you were like.”

Michael smiles and finally catches Billy's eyes until they're smiling back at him, still wary, but so sincere it makes Michael's heart punch against his ribs. Later, in Billy’s bed, he demonstrates what he’s like, exactly, when he’s peeling his favourite, hidden lacy things off and unwrapping himself for Billy to see, then showing Billy how to take a cock into his mouth and cushion it on the soft bed of his tongue, praising him for being such a fast learner.

He takes it so slow — there is time, as long as they want — letting Billy get used to the sensation, sliding long and sweet between his lips, holding Billy’s hot gaze and murmuring quiet encouragements, before taking his own turn and tucking himself tightly in between Billy’s beautiful dancer’s legs to taste and touch and watch closely for the one expression he’s never seen on Billy’s face before; the one he wants to see again and again and again.

Later still, when they’re tucked into bed and their kisses are lazy and molasses thick, he shows Billy how two men can fit together so sweet and slow with a promise of faster, harder.

And in the morning, when they’re sore and sweaty and Billy laughs at his hair sticking up before stealing a biting kiss in exchange for use of his toothbrush, Michael thinks that there is nothing wrong with being friends first. Nothing at all.

~ ⤄ ~


End file.
